


Silver and Gold

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, First Age, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Good pacing, Romance, Subjects - Culture(s), Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2002-07-06
Packaged: 2018-03-23 12:35:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3768802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fic set during the Silmarillion - Galadriel and Celeborn meet in Doriath</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

The fallen leaves of the forest of Doriath blew down the deep steps and into one of the pillared halls of Menegroth.  Finrod, son of Finarfin, stopped a moment and gazed with admiration at the vaulted ceiling and graceful carvings that swept across it.

            “Finrod?”

            The wind that played with the golden leaves seemed to find similar amusement with the shining strands of Finrod’s companion’s unbound hair as it caught the light of the golden lanterns.  An impatient, but affectionate, smile quirked at her lips.  “Finrod, they’re waiting…”

            “Yes, I’m coming,” he replied, quickening his pace to walk beside his golden-haired sister.

            “The ceiling is that interesting?” she asked skeptically.

            “It’s magnificent,” Finrod murmured, still gazing at the city being built around them, and unconsciously slowing again.

            She sighed, grabbed his arm, and pulled him along with her.  “The ceilings aren’t going anywhere, you can come back and gawk to your heart’s content once we’ve greeted Thingol and Melian.”

            “I’m not _gawking_ ,” Finrod told her indignantly.

            “Of course not,” she sighed.  She straightened her tunic and stooped briefly to brush some of the mud from her boots.  Even in her sensible traveling clothes, there was something graceful and proud about her stance, as if she was arrayed in finery worthy of her loveliness.  Her brother, too, was of noble stature – a plainly clad prince.

            “Can you imagine what this all will be like when it’s completed?” Finrod asked rhetorically, pulling out of her grasp and hurrying ahead a few steps to admire a delicate staircase curling to the next level.

            “I prefer the forest,” she stated, but pausing, smiled softly.  “I’m pleased that the dwellings don’t disturb it,” she admitted.  The pillars, carved in the likeness of trees, spread cleverly carved leaves onto the ceilings and walls.

            “Galadriel, it’s absolutely marvelous.  The architechture is ingenious…” Finrod ran his hand along a smooth rail as he walked eagerly on.

            Galadriel clasped her hands behind her back as she walked a bit more briskly.  “What I find ingenious is the way Thingol used the construction of the city to draw his people together.  Their devotion to this place is remarkable - it shows in their work.”

            Finrod smiled at his sister’s perception.  “I wouldn’t have thought of it in that light,” he mused.

            The pattering of bare feet on stone came echoing from an adjoining corridor.  A moment later, a dark-haired child in a blue-gray dress scampered across the hall in front of Galadriel and Finrod, and ducked behind a pillar.

            Finrod stopped in his tracks and turned back to his sister, who raised an eyebrow.

Galadriel took a few steps towards the pillar.  A head poked out from behind it, and a pair of dark grey eyes blinked at her.

            “Who are you hiding from?” Galadriel asked the little elf-maid, cocking her head and taking a few steps closer.

            “Celeborn,” the child stated, peering down the corridor she’d come from.

            “You’re hiding from the silver tree of Tol Eressëa?” Finrod asked skeptically.

            The dark-haired girl blinked, and shook her head.

            “At any rate,” Finrod continued, his tone businesslike, but a smile pulling at his lips, “that _isn’t_ a very good hiding place.  How about up here?” he gestured at the place where the tree-pillar split into two main branches.

            The elf-girl blinked.  “But I can’t get up there.”

            As Finrod was about to offer his assistance, more footsteps sounded in the corridor. 

            “Luthien!  Luthien where….”

            The child put a finger to her lips and ducked back behind the pillar.

            A beautiful elf-lad stopped abruptly where the corridors connected, and made slight, but graceful bows to Galadriel and Finrod.  He had a few books tucked under one arm, and was holding two quills.  His bright silver hair fell in a straight, even sheet down his back and over his shoulders.

            “Forgive me, but I seem to have misplaced my pupil,” the silver-haired newcomer began, blushing a little.

            “Misplaced is perhaps too passive a term.  From your pursuit I would guess that she has escaped,” Galadriel ventured, smiling.

            “She?  You’ve seen her then,” he concluded eagerly.

            Galadriel made a subtle gesture towards the pillar, and Finrod gave her a look of mock- indignation.

            “Luthien?”

            The child stepped into view. “I’m sorry Celeborn…”

            “I told you we would have time to play once your lessons were over,” the silver-haired lad, Celeborn, admonished gently as he knelt by the little girl.  “Why did you run off like that?”

            “I wanted to see the Lady!” she explained.  “The messenger told you that Lady Galadriel and Lord Finrod had arrived, and… I wanted to see them,” Luthien concluded lamely.

            Celeborn laughed - a sound as beautiful as he was.  “You might’ve _asked._ ”

            Luthien grinned and leaned close to Celeborn.  “She’s as beautiful as they say she is, isn’t she?” she whispered to her teacher, not so softly as not to be heard.  

            He looked up at Galadriel, face serious.  She felt a very illogical impulse to blush, but restrained it.  “It’s very impolite to whisper,” he whispered back to Luthien, making her giggle.

            Smiling, Celeborn stood.  “Forgive my discourtesy.  May I present Luthien, the daughter of Thingol and Melian.”  The girl made an endearing little curtsy.   “And I’m Celeborn, a nephew of Thingol, and Luthien’s…”

            “Nursemaid?” Finrod supplied innocently.  Galadriel shot him a disapproving glance.

            Celeborn laughed good-naturedly.  “Tutor, actually, although at times it seems the former is more accurate,” he concluded with a raised eyebrow at Luthien.

            “I _said_ I was sorry!” she protested.

            “Do you mean that if given the chance, you wouldn’t do it again?” Galadriel asked her, catching her eye.

            Luthien considered this.  “I…probably _would_ do it again,” she admitted ruefully.

            “You shouldn’t apologize for things you aren’t sorry you did,” Galadriel stated.  “If you do, then your apology loses all meaning.”

            Luthien looked chastened.  “I’m sorry?”

            Finrod burst out laughing, and Galadriel shook her head with a half-hearted grin.

            “Next time…just ask me, all right?” Celeborn requested of Luthien, smiling.

            “Let’s go see Mother and Father,” Luthien suggested, approaching Galadriel, smiling winsomely, and taking her hand to lead her onward.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic set during the Silmarillion - Galadriel and Celeborn meet in Doriath

“My Lord, Lord Finrod and Lady Galadriel, guests of Doriath,” the sentry at the door to Thingol’s study announced firmly.

“Papa!”

            Thingol looked up from a table covered in plans and sketches, stood, and smiled as he set his quill down.

            “Luthien, my little blossom,” he laughed as the little girl ran up to him and he scooped her up into his arms.

            “I see you’ve greeted our guests, Luthien,” Melian, who had also been intent on the drawing, stated as she too got to her feet, looking amused.  She raised her eyebrows at Celeborn, who smiled apologetically.

            “And we are very grateful for your hospitality,” Galadriel interjected gracefully.

            Melian smiled, and it was obvious where Luthien had inherited her remarkable beauty.  While Luthien was a lovely child, a tiny flower bud, Melian was a glowing rose in full bloom.  “But we have hardly been hospitable, when our guests still stand travel-weary at our threshold.”

            “Indeed,” Thingol agreed, putting his daughter down so that she could scamper to her mother.  “Though I have many questions for the children of Finarfin, I will wait until you’ve rested, and hopefully, can join us in our evening meal.”

            “Come, let me show you your accommodations,” Melian bade, stepping forward.  “Architecture wearies me so quickly sometimes.”

            Galadriel and Finrod exchanged a quick glance.  They must be welcome indeed for the lady of the realm to lead them to their rooms.

            “And you, my Luthien,” Melian continued, kneeling to kiss the child’s forehead, “will return to your lessons.  And I hope I will not hear of you running away from Celeborn again,” she added with a touch of sternness.

            “You won’t, Mother,” Luthien assured her, a bit _too_ quickly.  She ran over to plant a kiss on her father’s cheek, then returned docilely to Celeborn’s side and was handed a book and a quill.

            “In an hour or so, someone will ready your baths and lay clothes out for you for dinner,” Melian told her guests as she led them down a corridor.  “Until then, please rest, and if you need anything, just come back to the study.”  Melian smiled warmly at them, indicated a doorway, and turned to return the way she’d come.

            “Well that was an unmistakable ‘don’t explore,’wouldn’t you say?” Finrod muttered to Galadriel, a smile quirking at his lips.

 

 

His hair shimmered like mithril in the candlelight.

            Galadriel blinked, and turned her eyes and attention back the conversation.  It was just too easy to stare at the shiny things across the dinner table.  But Celeborn was deeply engrossed in the conversation and hadn’t noticed.

            “If you would form parties that would venture just outside Doriath, there would be so much less work for the border sentries,” Finrod was explaining animatedly.

            “The theory is sound,” Thingol agreed, “but Menegroth’s stance is defensive.  Not many other than our own people know we’re here, and I should prefer to keep it that way.”

            “If you’ll forgive me, your Majesty,” Finrod began, lips thinning, and golden curls falling into his eyes, “a hole is only so defensible.”

            Melian’s eyebrows shot up, and Celeborn picked up a napkin to stifle his chuckle.

            Thingol paused.  “Be that as it may, it becomes more so when ones enemies don’t know that there is anything hiding in that ‘hole.’”

            “My Lord, there always exists the possibility that one’s hole will be discovered,” Finrod pointed out.  

            “My dear boy,” Thingol said slowly, “Menegroth is not precisely a ‘hole.’”

            “You _have_ precautions in the event of an invasion then?” he asked curiously.

            Thingol went on to explain them in great detail, and Melian, seated beside Galadriel, with Luthien curled up asleep beside her with her head in her mother’s lap, leaned closer to begin a new conversation.

            “Your brother is refreshingly bold.  So many defer to my husband even when they disagree with him.  It’s pleasant when someone counters his opinions so fearlessly.  Even if it does involve calling our kingdom a hole,” she laughed.

            Galadriel laughed as well, and shook her head.  “I love Finrod dearly, but sometimes he’s not much of a diplomat.”

            Melian smiled.  “There are more important virtues than diplomacy,” she commented, running her fingers through Luthien’s raven hair.  “And what do you think of our city?”

            “It’s remarkable,” Galadriel replied easily.  “I magnificent tribute to the collaboration of the children of Aüle and the people of Varda.  But I must admit…” she added with a hesitant smile, “I find the forest of Doriath more bewitching.”

            Melian smiled softly.  “It is so like Lorien, and so unlike it,” she said softly.  “It breaks my heart and soothes my soul.  But there is a wildness in it that Lorien did not have.  Much like my Luthien,” she added, smiling at the child, peaceful and angelic in sleep.

            “Milady Galadriel,” Thingol spoke up, “will you do us the honor of joining your brother and I on a tour of the city this afternoon?”  He seemed delighted at the opportunity.

            Galadriel opened her mouth to accept, but Melian spoke first.

            “My love, I have _just_ offered her a tour of the forest.  And I believe I know a guide.”  Melian smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic set during the Silmarillion - Galadriel and Celeborn meet in Doriath

“It _is_ beautiful,” Galadriel commented unnecessarily, with something like regret in her voice, as she leaned from the streambank and let her fingertips trail in the icy water.  There _were_ echoes of Lorien in the woods of Doriath, and it made her almost homesick.

            “What’s the matter?” Celeborn prompted, as if percieving her unspoken thoughts.  Melian had dressed her guest in a white gown, and Galadriel’s hair shone like the sun rising over a snowy mountain.

            Galadriel ignored his query, and looked up to the canopy as she straightened.  “You should bring your young pupil here to study.  The quiet might settle her.”

            Celeborn laughed his lovely laugh again, and leaned back against the mossy tree-trunk.  “Luthien?  Study in the forest?  She’d be chasing butterflies and dancing to the birdsong in no time.  Believe me, I’ve tried… No, she stays more focused on her tasks indoors.”  He too let his gaze drift up to the treetops, and the shafts of sunlight painting the forest floor with their warm hues.  “I truly can’t blame her though.  One could spend centuries with these trees,” he murmured thoughtfully after a moment.  “And I intend to…”

            Galadriel fixed her gaze on him suddenly, and he blinked at the sharpness of it.

            “And yet,” she began, “the world moves outside the protection of Melian and the safety of Menegroth.  It is folly to ignore it.”

            “Indeed,” Celeborn agreed.  “As well as this indescribable beauty, there exists fear and hate, and darkness beyond what I could comprehend…”

            Galadriel raised an eyebrow as if he’d just stated something very obvious.

            “I have learned the crafts of swordplay and archery…I have slain orcs and battled goblins at the borders of Doriath.  But I am no warrior,” he said quietly, looking at his ink-stained hands.  “Perhaps you think me weak.” He raised his eyes to meet hers.

            “Curiously enough,” Galadriel began slowly, “I do not.”

            A smile spread over Celeborn’s beautiful features, and he stood and moved to her side at the streambank.  “Finrod and the sons of Feänor go forth to battle the forces of Morgoth, while Celeborn is content to teach runes and lore to a little princess and wander the woods of Doriath.  But Galadriel does not scorn him for this?” He sat beside her, eyes very serious.

            Galadriel smiled at him.  “Why is that?” she asked.

            Celeborn laughed.  “Perhaps you ought to be explaining it to me.”

            “Give it a try.  I’ll let you know how close you are.”

            Taking a deep breath, Celeborn looked again at his hands, his expression serious once more, then out into the forest.  “I suppose…I am just too fond of beauty and of peace.  Should it become necessary, I will fight to protect this peace with all of my strength and all of my will.  But while I can, I would rather help to build it and make it prosper.”  He looked back to her.  “Something like that?” he inquired with a half-smile.

            Galadriel, who had been intent on the pieces of azure sky visible through the treetops, met his gaze and returned his smile.  She’d smiled before, but this time it seemed softer, somehow.  Not polite, or forced, or even merely amused…and it lit her face as brightly as the late afternoon sun did her hair.

            “Something like that.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic set during the Silmarillion - Galadriel and Celeborn meet in Doriath

“There you are, Galadriel,” Finrod greeted, taking her by the hands and whirling her around.  Galadriel laughed.  What put _him_ in such a good mood?  “And how did you find Doriath?”

            “Lovely,” she answered, smiling.  “And did Menegroth live up to your standards?” 

            “ _Mostly_ ,” Finrod admitted with a grin.  “There are a few things I’ll do differently.”

            “Well that’s optimistic, isn’t it?” Galadriel replied, returning his grin with a cynical twist that his lacked.  “That’s assuming you can find an appropriate site.  And assuming our people are willing to follow you.”

            Finrod waved off these details.  “Yes, yes, and assuming that Varda’s stars don’t come loose from the heavens and knock me out cold.”

            “Tempt not the Lady’s retribution,” Galadriel teased with a small, wry smile.

            Finrod laughed.  “Well my Galadriel, how would you feel about another journey into Doriath?” he inquired.

            “Eager, naturally.  Why do you ask?”  She narrowed her eyes slightly at him.

            He shrugged.  “Thingol has a mind to show me the system of border sentries, and I’d like to see it.  Would Milady care to join us?” he concluded with a gently teasing smile.

            “Milady would,” she retorted.  “I’m curious to see how the system that passed us along so efficiently when we arrived works.  I however, may not recommend any improvements with which to offend my host,” she stated, raising her eyebrows at her brother.

            “Well now, we can’t expect the most beautiful of the children of Finarfin to _also_ be the most intelligent,” he replied, patting her cheek, eyes sparkling with restrained mirth.

            Galadriel leveled a look at him best described as “dangerous.”

            Finrod hurriedly looked up at Celeborn, who’d followed Galadriel into the hall a few steps behind.  “Er…will you be joining us then, Master Celeborn?” he asked, changing the subject.

            “To the borders?” Celeborn asked, voice impassive.  “Would you like me to?”

            Galadriel smiled.  “Please, if Luthien can make do without her tutor for a few days.  And I’m sure that you know many more beautiful parts of the forest.”

            Finrod raised an eyebrow, which Galadriel missed, as she was smiling at Celeborn.

            He returned her smile. “I do at that.  I’d be pleased to accompany you.”

            “Right then, Galadriel you should get changed.  That dress is _not_ very sensible for traveling,” Finrod pointed out.

            She blinked.  “We’re going _now?_ ”

            Finrod blinked back.  “Yes?”

 

            Finrod gave his blade a disdainful look and leaned to wipe it on the closest limp form.  After that, he wiped it on the grass.  When he could, he’d clean it more thoroughly.  Nothing stained bright Elvish steel like black orc blood.  He glanced around to take stock of the damages.  Thingol, unscathed, was attending his own blade.  One of the sentries was nursing a strained wrist, and Galadriel wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her forearm.   Finrod blinked.  Someone was missing….

            “Where’s Celeborn?” he asked, looking back around quickly.

            Thingol shrugged.  “He tends to disappear after battles like these.  Not a bad hand with a sword, but I think he has a bit of a weak stomach.”

            The sentries chuckled, and Galadriel glared at them as she passed.

            “Galadriel?” Finrod asked, blinking.  “Where…”

            “I’ll be back,” she assured him, not looking back to answer him.

            She didn’t have to wander far before she found him, seated at the base of a tree, one of his knees pulled up to his chest, and his head resting against it.  His blade lay out of his sight among the tangled roots.  He looked up at her approach, his face ashen-pale.

            “Celeborn, are you all…”

            “Please go back,” he interrupted before she took a step closer.

            Galadriel blinked.  “Why?”

            “Because I’m going to be ill.”

            “You mean that literally?”

            “Quite.”

            “Right now?”

            “Most likely.”

            Galadriel stood rooted on the spot until he lurched to his knees, and laid his white-knuckled fist on the rough bark of the tree he’d chosen as his comfort. 

            After a moment though, she hurried forward to gather his silver hair loosely and hold it in safety behind his head.  Before she was quite aware of it, she began softly rubbing his back and murmuring comforting words.

            When he straightened, she carefully helped him to his feet.  “Come on, let’s get you some water,” she suggested, leading him towards the stream.  Celeborn obeyed, his face still pale, but lacking the grayish cast.  She sat him down by the stream, and he leaned over and filled his cupped hands with the clean water, infused with moonlight.

            “You’re not hurt at all, are you?” she asked politely.

            He shook his head.  “No.”

            “You’re sure?”

            He nodded.  “Galadriel, I…”

            “Hush, you don’t have to explain.  I know exactly how you feel.  Orcs make me want to be ill as well,” she interrupted hurriedly.  _And some just aren’t meant to be warriors, no matter how intelligent and skilled they are._

“It’s…not that exactly,” he replied, staring out over the stream.  He turned his face back to her.  “Have you ever …looked one in the eye?  Just as your sword slid through it?”  He closed his own eyes.

            Galadriel blinked. “No.”

            Celeborn shuddered.  “Don’t.”

            “I suppose seeing that kind of cruelty and evil…”

            He shook his head.  “I don’t know how to explain this, and I pray to Iluvatar you never have to see it yourself.”

            “See what?” she asked, baffled.

            He took a deep shuddering breath.  “I was a little more than a child the first time I slew an orc,” he told her, staring at his hands.  “I was good with a sword, and Thingol sent me with one of the border parties.  There was a skirmish…much like this one.  Completely routine - the sentries weren’t even concerned.  Orcs came with border duty.  So they sent me out, a fresh young warrior eager to defend his home with his blade.”  Celeborn shook his head with a rueful smile.

            Galadriel watched him intently, waiting for more.

            “I’d read about them of course, and even seen illustrations.  _Nothing_ could have prepared me for seeing them, though.  They made my flesh creep.  I just … wanted to make them go away.  All of them.”  
            “Celeborn, I think we all know that feeling,” Galadriel admitted, putting her hand gently on his, and shuddering a little as she tried to free her mind of the image of the orc she’d killed, with its wretched, cracked and blackened skin, and its twisted, bent stature of one tall forced down by some unthinkable weight.

            “The first kill was so easy.  My sword slid right through it, but just as I was about to pull my weapon free, it…latched onto it.  And I looked right down into its horrible, twisted face, leering at me, and its hollow eyes…”  He looked up at her, grey eyes deep, and full of pain.   “I saw gratitude.”

            Still silent, Galadriel twined her fingers with his and held his hand a little tighter.

            Staring at their clasped hands, Celeborn went on.  “And I saw myself.”

            Galadriel let her grip slacken.  “Orcs are creatures of Morgoth, Celeborn,” she said coldly.

            “They’re children of Iluvatar, no different than us.”

            “You aren’t even making sense.”

            “Aren’t I?  Morgoth cannot make his own race of children any more than Aulë could.  Morgoth can only twist what Iluvatar made.”

            “I know that, Celeborn,” Galadriel said tightly.  “I’m as well read in lore as you.  Are you _suggesting_ ,” she continued, “that the Halls of Mandos are full of those … creatures?”  Her tone was scornful.  “Whatever they originally were, they have _long_ since ceased to be our kindred.”

            “I’m suggesting,” Celeborn replied quietly, “that nothing Morgoth could do would _ever_ shake Iluvatar’s love for his children, or his compassion for their misery.  And I wonder…if the newest child of an orc looks any different than the children of the Elves.”

            She wanted to silence him.  Strike him or scorn him or _anything_ that would make that abysmal, shining truth stop.  But some things were stronger even than the will of the daughter of Finarfin.

            “Galadriel, didn’t you ever wonder why orcs are so easy to kill?   They _want_ to die…”

             She stared at him.  His beautiful face reflected a painful mixture of compassion and revulsion, even as he thought about it.

            “And I give them what they want,” Celeborn murmured numbly.   “Iluvatar help me, I give them what they want.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic set during the Silmarillion - Galadriel and Celeborn meet in Doriath

"We should return to the others," Galadriel said crisply, standing.

Celeborn struggled to his feet, and then took a few steps to retrieve his sword.

His expression at the crust of dried blackness on his blade almost softened her heart. Almost.

"You might’ve cleaned it sooner, and it would not have dried on," she pointed out, for something to say.

"Yes," he agreed, wiping the sword on the dewy grass several times, then deftly sheathing it. 

_He would be the sort to be good at putting a sword away_ , she thought, irrationally. Compassion for orcs…what was next, tears for Morgoth himself? She had no patience with Celeborn’s bleeding heart. He was soft. He belonged in Valinor, where it was _safe_ to mourn and to philosophize. But Middle-Earth was harsh. One had to be able to do what had to be done and move on, in order to thrive in Middle-Earth.

He started back the way she’d come, towards the clearing where the sentries were probably gathering the slain orcs to burn. At least he wouldn’t be campaigning for burial ceremonies, she hoped. After a few steps, he paused, and turned back to her, almost as if he’d been privy to her thoughts. 

"Was that…" he began, then paused to listen. His sword leapt from its sheath in a heartbeat, even more quickly than it had sought its rest there, and he stood, tall and alert, with the night wind running its fingers through his silver hair.

Galadriel froze, ears straining. What had she missed, wandering the confused paths of her thoughts instead of keeping her attention where it belonged?

Faster than thinking, Celeborn locked blades with that which burst forth, and seemed to grow out from the shadows themselves.

"Another band," he called, sinking his sword into the torso of the orc who dropped the hilt of its ill-made, shattered weapon. Grimacing, Celeborn raised a foot to kick the body from his blade, ready to turn and face the enemy he heard at his back. But the orc writhed on his sword and stuck there, perhaps determined to take him with it…into Mandos…

Drawing her own slender blade, Galadriel swatted that distressing thought from her consciousness as she lunged forward to defend Celeborn’s back. She’d learned swordplay alongside her brothers as a child, and was as comfortable with her weapon as Finrod was with his. Not a few orcs had tasted the steel of Galadriel’s skillful blade, and this one would be no different.

_Have you ever …looked one in the eye? Just as your sword slid through it?_

Don’t.

Part of her soul begged her to heed Celeborn’s advice. But a prouder part sought to prove that she could do as he’d done and remain unaffected…

And so she looked down at it, as her sword cleaved its clumsy mail and heavy hide cleanly, and its flat yellow eyes looked back.

…and for an instant, they were grey and deep, and shadowed by a curtain of mithril strands, and the black blood ran crimson.

The instant passed with a blink, and Galadriel stared at the crumpled corpse at her feet. She backed away from it, and ran into Celeborn. _And may he be cursed a thousand ways into the Void for planting these thoughts in my head…_

Still, it was good to have something solid and warm at her back, supporting her. With a ragged breath, she held her sword at ready.

Alert and ready, if shaken, she heard it this time. But these were not the heavy shufflings of the creatures of Morgoth, but light quick footsteps. And for one awful moment…

The moonlight caught in the golden curls of Finrod as hurried to his sister’s side, blade drawn, and again stained and dripping with shadow.

"You’re hurt,"he stated, short hair falling in front of his eyes.

"I am not," she retorted, more harshly than she’d intended.

Still catching his breath, Finrod faced her, a little bewildered.

"Milord, that’s the end of them," one of the sentries called to Finrod, placing his arrow back into his quiver. Finrod looked back at him.

"You’re certain?"

The soldier nodded his flaxen head. "The tales of the prowess of the sons of Finwë are not exaggerated. Nor, indeed, are those concerning his daughters."

Finrod grinned, sheathing his sword after wiping the worst of its stain onto the grass, and gave a slight, gracious bow. Galadriel managed to nod curtly in response. 

Celeborn stepped back, put away his own blade, and had cocked his head at her, expression concerned. Galadriel carefully avoided meeting his eyes. Finrod placed a hand on her shoulder. "Galadriel?"

"I told you I was fine," she repeated, voice dangerously quiet, as the sentry made his way back to his companion and Thingol, and they followed him.

"You can put your sword away," Finrod told her softly.

 

"This," Celeborn was telling his young charge as he opened a book and fondly let his fingers slide across the page, "is how the Noldor make their letters."

Luthien peered at them intently. "I like the Cirth better," she announced.

Celeborn laughed. "That’s just because you already know them. Fëanor’s letters are very clever, and you are going to need to learn them too."

Luthien cocked her head. "Fëanor?"

"The eldest son of Finwë. He would be… Lord Finrod and Lady Galadriel’s uncle."

"Half-blood," a voice interjected.

Celeborn looked up quickly to meet the cool eyes of Lady Galadriel, as she stood beside a pillar carved in the likeness of a great poplar. He stood politely to greet her, and Luthien followed his example. She aknowledged them with a stately nod, and they stood in silence a moment while Luthien fidgeted with her quill.

"When the princess would permit it, I have matters to discuss with her tutor," Galadriel began politely.

Luthien pulled at Celeborn’s sleeve. "Does that mean I can go outside?"

He smiled at her apologetically. "I’m afraid not, unless you can find someone to take you. Besides, it’s going to rain."

With a long-suffering sigh, Luthien put her quill down beside her books and started to wander off in search of amusement.

"Luthien!" Celeborn called after her. "Come back here after lunch!"

She nodded, still making a show of being melancholy at her confinement.

Grinning at his pupil, it was with hesitation that Celeborn turned his attention back to the icy lady of the Noldor. "What did you need to discuss with me?" he began, voice neutral.

"Don’t play daft, Celeborn," Galadriel snapped tightly, "because I know full well you aren’t."

"Very well then," he replied quietly, an eyebrow arching upward. "I am at the lady’s command."

Galadriel glanced around the small study, with its colorful hangings and delicate carvings adorning the stone walls. Comfortable and lovely though it was, it chafed at her to be too long underground, indoors. "If you do not fear the rain, then, we shall visit Doriath for Luthien’s sake."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic set during the Silmarillion - Galadriel and Celeborn meet in Doriath

[Many thanks to Deborah for reading over the first part of this ages ago, and to Anne-sempai and Ekuboryu for putting up with my months of whining about having to write Melian. To all reviewers: Thank you from the bottom of my hobbitish heart. If it were my birthday, I would invite you all over to my hole and give you presents!]

 

"I do not know how we can talk if you will not look at me," Celeborn said quietly, his hand against the trunk of the mighty oak. Of all the beautiful places in Doriath, they had returned to the very place that he’d shown her on the day of her arrival. Which led Galadriel to believe that the simple beauty of the little grove by the stream was very dear to Celeborn. And in sharing it with her, he’d somehow opened himself to her scrutiny, for good or ill.

She’d spent the better part of two days nursing her resentment and anger against him, and knew that if she looked at him now, all that effort would be wasted. And Galadriel did not like her efforts to be in vain.

"I can manage, I’m sure," she said crisply.

"As am I," he answered, voice heavy. 

She could feel his eyes on her, and in her boldness wanted nothing more than to meet them. It was not her custom to shy from the gaze of anyone. _That would be part of your problem…_

Never had she turned from the Valar’s painfully beautiful eyes, even if she trembled inside. And yet, she could not look at Celeborn, with his eyes like the stormy sky over the canopy of Doriath. 

The wind tore at the leaves, and sent them flying between the pillars of trunks. A moment later it subsided, falling to a gentle rustle when the persistent staccato of the rain began.

"I deserve your anger," Celeborn began, as the rain broke the silence for him. "I should never have given your that burden. It…was my own pride," he admitted, still waiting for her to look back at him. "I feared you would think less of me." He sounded embarrassed, and a little apologetic.

"I’m sorry that my high opinion means that much to you," she replied coldly, looking out over the stream. She felt the soft kiss of the rain on her forehead.

"Are you?"

__

Was she?

Galadriel countered that question with one of her own. "So you find it necessary to disturb others with your…bizzare philosophies? Will Doriath soon be populated by those who cannot in _good conscience_ defend their own borders?"

"You have _seen_ that they do not prevent me from…doing what must be done," he said tightly.

That was true, she thought, flinching at the memory of Celeborn trying to kick the orc from his blade, and knowing what he must have been thinking. She wasn’t being entirely fair.

"And I have shared these thoughts with no one else," he went on, more quietly.

Galadriel’s face tightened as she finally gave in to herself, and looked up at him. "None, save me?"

"None, save you." He stood very straight, his hair pale and grey in the gloom.

"Do you enjoy repeating me?" she snapped hollowly, even as she felt her anger dissolving in the rain.

"Forgive me," he replied awkwardly, embarrassed again.

This time, Galadriel found no glib retort. "I forgive you."

He ventured to smile, but it faltered as she bit her lip and looked away from him again.

"Why did you give me this burden?" she asked sharply, cutting him deeply, and letting truth pour forth.

"Because I knew you were strong enough to bear it. And I was weary of bearing it alone."

"Fortunately," Galadriel replied quietly, with just the faintest hint of sarcasm, "I shall know nothing of that."

"You give your forgiveness in words, but still speak so bitterly. You needn’t forgive me, simply because I asked it of you."

Galadriel rubbed at her forehead, now damp with rain. "It is done, and cannot be undone. And unpleasant though it may be, I would like to think that I value truth as highly as you do. Or at least," she continued, tone dry, although she was not, "as highly as you do my favorable opinion of you."

Celeborn laughed his lovely laugh for the first time since…

"I have tried for a day to withold it from you," Galadriel continued, "with no success. Well," she amended, "limited success."

"I…" he began slowly, meeting her eyes, "would have none keeping mine from you."

Galadriel closed the gap between them with a few steps, and impulsively reached for his hand.

 

"And what, may I ask, were you doing out in the rain?" Finrod asked, his tone stern, his eyes dancing.

"Getting wet," Galadriel retorted, looking back at the trail she’d left on the smooth tiled floors of Menegroth on the way to the apartments where she and her brother were staying.

"I see that," Finrod remarked thoughtfully. "I think perhaps I’d better go entertain Luthien until her tutor dries out a bit as well," he continued, striding briskly down the corridor.

Galadriel spun to demand what had led him to draw such a baseless, albeit _true_ , assumption.

But stopped short, mouth still open, when she came face to face with the Lady of Menegroth.

"I happened upon Celeborn, and thought you might need a change of clothes," Melian explained, not quite smiling, but looking amused nonetheless.

__

Why does everyone _assume we are always together?_ She wondered irritably.

"You seem to spend a great deal of time in each other’s company," Melian continued dryly, as though she could hear Galadriel’s unspoken words.

And it was not entirely unlikely, Galadriel reminded herself, that she could not.

Galadriel’s eyes strayed to the gown draped over Melian’s arm, and back to the one she wore. And _why_ did Melian seem intent on always dressing her in white?

"White suits you so well. You have the color for it – Luthien and I are too pale, I’m afraid," Melian said pleasantly, holding up the dry garment.

"You speak, my Lady," Galadriel began warily, "as though you know my thoughts."

Melian laughed. "Indeed, how could I not, when you wear them so plainly on that pretty face of yours?"

Although a little indignant at that observation, Galadriel managed a smile.

Melian returned it. "I do not often intrude on the minds of others. Too many are nervous of me as it is," she explained.

__

Including myself, Galadriel admitted.

"I am very grateful for the gown," Galadriel began, changing the subject.

"And you wonder why I felt it necessary to deliver it myself?" Melian continued, smiling again – as if the woman _needed_ to read anyone’s thoughts! "Well then, I shall be quite frank with you. I had hoped to catch you apart from the company of my husband and your brother, or even my little one and Celeborn – which was a bit of a trial, I can assure you."

__

How she teases me! Or am I too senstive on the subject? "And why did you decide to undergo that trial?"

Melian smiled her dazzling smile. "Because I long a little for my home, and would speak of it with one who dwelt there as I did," she told Galadriel gently.

Galadriel reminded herself again that Melian was a Maia. Indeed, the security of Menegroth had as much to do with the Lady’s "enchantments" as it did the Lord’s watchful sentries and careful precautions. Melian was incredibly powerful. And yet, face to face, Galadriel had trouble keeping that fact in mind.

Perhaps dwelling so long among the Children had made Melian a bit more like them than the other Maiar.

Then again, Galadriel was fairly certain that Olorin could’ve convinced a fish he was no different than it was, if he chose to.

 

"Your turn!" Luthien told Finrod blithely, then folded her hands and tried to copy his carefully stoic expression.

"I believe the princess is indeed correct," he replied slowly.

Luthien giggled. Hearing her laughter, Finrod smiled, and pushed a piece forward.

She narrowed her eyes at him – a gesture so like Galadriel’s that he had to wonder if Luthien tried out everyone’s mannerisms to see which suited her. "Are you letting me win?"

Finrod raised an eyebrow. The child was smart – a little _too_ smart.

"Celeborn never lets me win," she told him, moving one of her pieces forward as well.

"Doesn’t he," Finrod replied, voice perfectly neutral.

Luthien peered at him intently across the game board, waiting for his move.

He didn’t know Celeborn well, so he wasn’t sure how well he liked him. But Galadriel seemed to, and that, naturally, was the important part. Galadriel wasn’t… given much to liking people from the onset. In fact… she was much more given to the opposite. It took a great deal to win the respect of his sister, and Finrod had to wonder how this Celeborn fellow had accomplished it.

"He should marry her," Luthien stated with conviction.

Finrod blinked. "Marry who?"

"Lady Galadriel,"she answered promptly. "Aren’t you going to move?"

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it’s your turn."

Finrod smiled. "No no, you’re trying to sidetrack me. Now, why do you say that my sister should marry your Celeborn?"

Luthien shrugged. "Why not?"

"The Eldar do not marry on ‘why not’s, Princess," Finrod said sternly.

Luthien shifted uncomfortably. "Well…"

"Well?" Finrod prompted.

Luthien snorted softly, a mannerism easily traced back to Melian, when she spoke of the princes of the Noldor. It almost made Finrod crack a smile. "Look," she began, her expression long-suffering. "I know Celeborn."

"And I have known my Galadriel since the first moment of her life," Finrod countered, expression still grave.

"So you _ought_ to see that she fancies him," Luthien replied.

"I have _never_ known my sister to be given to fancies. Not even when she was as little as you."

"That explains it then," Luthien retorted.

Finrod couldn’t keep it back. He grinned. "And what, pray, does it explain?"

Luthien shrugged her little shoulders. "I suppose that’s why she didn’t waste time with fancying him."

"You _just_ said that she…."

Luthien interrupted him with her little borrowed sigh again. "Wrong word. Can’t you tell she loves him?"

Finrod was thoughtful for a moment. Finally, he nodded. "Yes, I can."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic set during the Silmarillion - Galadriel and Celeborn meet in Doriath

Celeborn, his hair still dripping, stood in the doorway of the study.  Luthien looked up from the gameboard and waved.

            Finrod looked up at him thoughtfully.

            “Luthien,” Finrod began, “why don’t you go bother my sister?”

            The little princess blinked her dark grey eyes.  “Are you _sure_ that’s a good idea?”

            “Positive,” Finrod lied conclusively.

            Shrugging, Luthien stood, bowed very gravely, and dashed off down the hall.

            Watching her go, Celeborn grinned.  “She always makes me smile.”

            Finrod withheld a number of tempting comments about what else might make Master Celeborn smile, expending a great deal of will power in the process.  “Have a seat,” he bade, beckoning towards Luthien’s place.

            Obeying, Celeborn surveyed the layout of pieces.  “It seems the princess has you on the run.”

            “If you’d care to take over for her, I think you’ll find yourself less advantaged than she was.  You’re not at all little and cute.”

            “In that case, I might as well let her finish her own game,” Celeborn retorted good-naturedly.

            Finrod grinned at him.  “Let’s be honest, shall we?” he began, leaning forward far enough to prop his elbows on the table.

            “Preferrably,” Celeborn replied, blinking.

            “Just what _is_ going on with you and my sister?”

            Celeborn let out a deep breath and leaned back in his chair.  “If I knew how to answer that, I would be more than happy to…”

            “Come Celeborn,” Finrod chided, “you agreed to honesty.  Now, deliver.”

            Celeborn met his eyes frankly.  “Galadriel is…”

            “Beautiful,” Finrod concluded dismally.

            “Well… yes,” Celeborn admitted.

            “I should’ve know.  You know, I think every one of our first cousins was smitten with her at one point?  You’re perilously close to that yourself,” Finrod realized, sitting up a little.  “You’re Thingol’s nephew, you said?”

            “Grand-nephew, actually,” Celeborn amended.  “His brother Elmo is my grandfather.”

            “And his brother Olwë is mine.  Two generations off.  Slim margin, Celeborn.”

            Celeborn nodded, looking mildly troubled by this.

            “What I’m getting at,” Finrod continued, “is that the last thing Galadriel needs is another person obsessing over her beauty.  She’s been through it.”

            “I’m sure you’re correct,” Celeborn began carefully.  “And I imagine that the next to the last thing she needs is a brother intent on telling her what she needs?”

            “That,” Finrod told him, very seriously, “is irrelevant to this discussion.”

            “Not entirely,” Celeborn disagreed.  “Galadriel undoubtedly knows her own mind,” he pointed out.

            “Undoubtedly,” Finrod agreed vehemently.

            “Then surely she would’ve dismissed me quite forcefully, had I been only an admirer of her beauty.”

            “That…” Finrod stated, leaning back in his chair, “is a good point.”

            “I rather liked it myself,” Celeborn retorted modestly, grinning.

            “And what is also a good point,” Finrod parried, “is that even Galadriel herself is not immune to a fair face and a clever tongue.”

            “Finrod,” Celeborn said flatly, leaning forward, face very earnest.  “Galadriel is … an intriguing person.  The more I talk to her… the more I want to.   She… impresses me, and frustrates me, and… fascinates me.  I’m fond of her.”

            Finrod snorted.  “So am I.”

 

            

Finrod gazed in loving awe at the map in his hands.  He sat in perfect stillness, as though the slightest movement would shatter a dream.

            Galadriel paused at the study door.  “Finrod?”

            He looked up, eyes shining, grinning like a little boy. 

            “It’s perfect,” he told her quietly.  “There’s a system of caves along the river Narog.  The placement is ideal – better than Menegroth!” he exclaimed enthusiastically.  “All I lack is my own Maia, and –”  Finrod abandoned that line reason at a stern glance from his sister, and cleared his throat.   “At any rate, we can set out at first light.  Thingol has agreed to help with architects and labor, and I _would_ like to survey the site as soon as possible.  The sooner we get started the better,” he concluded, voice rising in an excited crescendo.

            “….first light?” she echoed softly, then quickly ducked her head to avoid her brother’s gaze.

“Galadriel, this is what we’ve dreamed of.”  He stood from the desk and faced her.  “This is your ambition and mine.  And yet you look as though I’ve just torn out your heart.”  Finrod took her chin in his hand and forced her to face him, but she kept her eyes downcast.  “This is about Celeborn?”

Galadriel looked up quickly, denial on her lips and confirmation in her eyes.

Finrod silenced her with a look.  Their relationship had been that of equals so long, that she could almost forget that the older brother she adored could command her respect and attention with the merest expression.  

“You’re in love with him.”  It wasn’t a question.

Galadriel opened her mouth to respond, but Finrod cut her off with an irritated gesture.

“And you’re planning to be a stubborn fool and refuse to change your almighty ambitions and plans?  Forever is a long time to spend alone, Galadriel,” he told her sharply.

“Do _not_ act as though you would know from experience,” she retorted pulling away from his grasp.  “You are _hardly_ alone, just because that Vanyar…”

“Amarië chose what she believed in.  Than happened to be obedience to the Valar over me.  I can not and will not find fault with her for that choice,” he asserted quietly.

“Nor will I hesistate to.  It shows the shallowness of her devotion to you.”

“I loved her.  I still do.”

“No one doubts that, Finrod,” Galadriel said softly, putting her hand on his shoulder.  “It was she who left you.”

“Only as much as I left her,” he contradicted, shaking his head.  He looked up and smiled at his sister.  “Finwë’s line has a strand of stubbornness as wide as the Ered Luin, and about as perilous.  It is not often we meet one as stubborn as ourselves.” 

Slowly, she returned his smile.  “A day?”

“What?”

“Can you delay our…your…departure a day?  I just need a chance to speak to him of this.”

“Of course.  But, Galadriel…” he began.

“Hm?”

“You know… any decisions you make at this point aren’t irrevocable,” he said with a cynical half-smile.  _As your decision was_ , she thought, not liking the melancholy sheen in her brother’s eyes.  He let his fingers slide across the map.  “I won’t be far from Doriath.”

She nodded.  “I know.  But…  I want my decisions to last.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic set during the Silmarillion - Galadriel and Celeborn meet in Doriath

[Some quick notes –

To Ringwraith – thanks for keeping me on my toes!  Let me defend on one count, though…  The Lorien to which Melian refers, way back in chapter 2, is not Galadriel and Celeborn’s later realm of Lothlorien, or Laurelindorean.  She is referring to the Lorien she knows, the forest of Irmo of the Valar, in Valinor, where Melian dwelt before she went to Middle-Earth and fell in love with Elwë.  

And yes, you’re quite right - Luthien is far too young.

But she’s so freaking cute.

*ahem* That is to say, I was already a number of chapters into the story when that occurred to me, and by then, I was attached.]

[that said, on to the story, which I made you wait all summer for…   *blush*]

 

“Ow!”

            “Hush.  Pain builds character.”

            Luthien gave her mother a reproachful look through a veil of wet, half brushed hair.  “Who made that up?”

            “I did.  Now hold still,” Melian replied, setting her daughter’s head in an erect, forward position, and pulling the comb through the damp tangles of her raven hair.

            Galadriel smiled at Luthien’s long-suffering expression, as she deftly wound her own plaits into a neat crown and pinned them in place.

            “Why did you do that?” Luthien asked sharply.

            “What?” Galadriel responded.

            “Put your hair up.  You should leave it down, it looks prettier that way…”

            “Loathe though I am to admit that the Princess of Tangles here should give anyone advice about their hair,” Melian added, tugging at the comb, while Luthien winced, “she does have a point.  Your hair looks much more becoming when it has room to shimmer.”

            Galadriel paused, then hesitantly reached up to take the pins out, and unplait her waves.  She always put her hair up for formal functions, ever since she was barely more than a child.

            Because Fëanor might be there.

            Well, she might find it difficult to explain to her hostess the origin of her habit.  _My father’s half-brother liked to touch my hair…_    And it scared her.  Why, she wasn’t sure, quite.   Other people touched her hair.  Father stroked her hair when she cried.   Mother loved to twine strings of pearls into it, and braid and fuss, much as Melian was doing with Luthien’s mane.  And her brothers and cousins pulled it when they wanted to tease her, much as they did Aredhel’s and later, Finrod’s little friend Amarië’s.

            But it was different, somehow.  A different that made her freeze like a startled rabbit.

            She remembered the day she learned to write, in particular.    All of Finwë’s grandchildren, and his two younger sons, were gathered to learn the letters Fëanor had made.  The letters had so pleased Aulë, who rejoiced in all the creations of his pupils, and now Fëanor taught them, as Aulë often taught the children.  He was patient, but restless, as though ready to begin a new project.  But he taught them.

            Going through the ranks of bent heads, and uncertainly moving quills, Fëanor paused by each of his students, to check their progress, and provide an appropriate word of encouragement.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him pat Aredhel’s cheek, clap a hand on Finrod’s shoulder…

            She felt his fingers in her hair, and her ink-laden quill halted.  It was a few heartbeats, him pushing his fingers through her glossy waves all the while, until he spoke.  

            “Well, keep going.  How I am to see if you’re doing well?”  Galadriel managed to get the quill moving again, shivering as he rubbed his thumb across her temple.  “Good girl.”

            “Visiting Valinor?” Melian asked dryly.

            Galadriel blinked, and brought two sets of very curious, very insightful eyes into focus as they fixed firmly on her.  

            “You could put it that way,” she replied, not bothering to try to smile.

            Melian gave her daughter’s hair an appraising glance.   “I think that’s all we can accomplish for now.  Go make a nuisance of yourself until your hair is a little drier.

            Luthien pouted.   “Now you’re just trying to get rid of me.”

            Melian laughed.  “I need to talk to Galadriel, little one.  So go play and get your hair into more wretched tangles, all right?”

            “I’ll do my best,” Luthien said solemnly, and then stood and scampered off.

            Melian turned to Galadriel, her expression intent.  Galadriel did her best not to shift uncomfortably like a guilty child.

            “I know your brother is full of plans for a hidden kingdom of his own.  Do you mean to accompany him to the Narog?” she asked directly.

            “I do,” Galadriel said with a nod.

            Melian cocked her head.  “How set are you on that decision?”

            “Very,” Galadriel replied forcefully.  “It is not a ‘decision’ in the least.  He is my brother, and his ambitions are very close to my own.”

            “Yes,” Melian mused, “I imagine you came to Middle-earth for very much that purpose.”  
            “I, like my brothers, came to oppose Morgoth, and to help protect our brethren who dwell here already,” Galadriel retorted icily.

            “Which is why, or course, the Noldor build their own cities and nations, instead of putting their forces relentlessly against Angband,” Melian answered dryly.

            “The gratitude of the Sindar is duly noted.”  Galadriel’s anger flared, but not without an element of guilt.  The Noldor were indeed making them selves quite comfortable in Middle-earth.  Come what may of the battle against Morgoth, Beleriand and its realms would be their home until Arda was no more…

            “Forgive me,” Melian said softly, reaching out a hand to Galadriel’s clenched fist.  “I did not mean to accuse.”

            “How foolish of me to be mistaken,” Galadriel said curtly.

            “I meant to ask,” Melian continued, her expression turning very serious, “If you would consider remaining in Doriath, as my companion, and my student.”

            Galadriel stared.  She, princess of the line of Finwë, a lady-in-waiting for this…

            Maia.

            “And what do you propose to teach me?” Galadriel asked, her voice carefully neutral.

            “Do you mean to be a leader of Elves, Galadriel?   I would be very much surprised if you did not.  There is much you could learn about reading the hearts of those you lead.”

            “I think I can manage well enough without invading the minds of my people,” she snapped.

            Shaking her head with a half-smile quirking at her lips, Melian snorted.  “I did not mean anything so crude.  But there will be times when you may have to do things you would rather not, to protect the kingdom, and those people who’s privacy you value so highly.”  Her eyes met Galadriel’s, and for an instant, the Noldor princess caught a glimpse of the power and wisdom that dwelt in Melian.  “Besides,” she went on, after a slight pause, “I would dearly like to have someone close, who could speak to me of my home in the words of one who has dwelt countless years there and loves it as I do.”  She smiled then – a simple smile that assured Galadriel that her motives were no more complex than the ones she’d explained.  “I do not, propose, however, that you wholly deprive your brother and your people of your presence.  And I think there are yet lessons you have to learn from Finrod as well.”

            Galadriel blinked.  “You truly think me so inept?”

            “Hardly,” Melian denied vehemently.  “You have potential beyond what I have seen in any, Galadriel.  I think, perhaps, you only want a little guidance.”

            “And for that, you think I should stay on in Doriath, as you lady-in-waiting?”

            “I would not describe it as such.  You would be my disciple and, I could only hope, my friend.”  Melian smiled again.  And the light in her eyes was the light of one who had seen Telperion and Laurelin at their first blooming, and chosen the starlight of Beleriand over their rays.

            “I am that already,” Galadriel replied, smiling at last.  “I appreciate your offer.  But,” her smile faded, and she shook her head, “I have no wish to be parted from my brothers.”

            There were others from whom she did not wish to be parted, but there was still a chance she might sway him… 

            “If you reconsider,” Melian offered gently, “know that you are always welcome in Doriath.”

 

 

 

Thingol spoke.

            He did not stand, but his voice quieted the chatter in the hall.  The assembled throng of Menegroth all silently placed their silverware on the tablecloth, and lifted their heads attentively.

            “Prince Finrod of the Noldor, our nephew, Princess Galadriel, our niece, and their brothers who were unable to pay their respects to Menegroth as of yet, will be setting forth to build Menegroth’s sister city with the first light of dawn.”

            Galadriel almost choked.  He was _announcing_ it?  She’d hoped to draw Celeborn aside after the meal, and explain – argue her cause.  But now… he’d think she didn’t care enough to tell him before the rest of the city knew.  

            “We have promised our kinsmen the aid and good will of Doriath.  Now we call upon you, our people to help show it.  If there are architects, masons, sculptors, and artisans, who feel their skills are up to the challenge of a new city hewn from the living rock of Beleriand, we beseech you to lend your hands to Lord Finrod…”

            Looking up from her plate, Galadriel found herself staring directly into Celeborn’s grey eyes.   She would’ve looked away, but they held her fast.

            “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered from across the table, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice.

            All of her “I meant to”s and “I was going to”s sounded feeble in her mind, so she kept silent.  Thingol continued speaking, but she no longer remotely attended his words.  Celeborn broke their gaze and shifted his chair, as though only his politeness prevented him from walking out of the hall.

            Thingol concluded his speech and fell silent.  Galadriel had caught something about the fellowship between the cities, but was distracted as Celeborn’s manners at last allowed him to flee.  She stood to follow.

            And at the same moment, Finrod stood to receive the of craftsman who crowded up to the place at Thingol’s table where he sat, offering their services and their wishes of good fortune.  With a glance over her shoulder at Celeborn’s form disappearing through the corridors, Galadriel joined her brother, and stood at his side.

            “As much as I am pleased with how the arches turned out in the entryways,” an architect was telling Finrod animatedly, “I have a new idea of how it might work, and would be eager…”

            “A moment,” Finrod interrupted him regretfully, holding up a graceful hand.  He turned to Galadriel, looking slightly annoyed.  “Why aren’t you following him?”

            “Beg pardon?” she replied primly, pointedly _not_ looking at the builder who, far from being offended at having his speech interrupted, looked extremely interested in theirs.

            “Go on,” Finrod bade her, making it clear that he had no intention of going back to his conversation until she obeyed him.

            She followed Celeborn.

 

 

 

[An update at last!  I’m horribly desperately sorry for making everyone wait all summer!  I know it was cruel, but I had a nassssty busy summer of too much summer job and not remotely enough free time, not to mention an extremely slow dial-up connection.  But I’m back at school, and writing a great deal more consistently now.  Again, I’m sorry this story went so long between updates!  And thanks to all of you who cared enough to keep nagging me.  ^_^  Hope it was worth waiting for!]


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic set during the Silmarillion - Galadriel and Celeborn meet in Doriath

            It was a little unsettling, but Galadriel’s first guess proved to be the right one.  Celeborn was seated on the mossy ground of the grove by the stream bank that he had shown her the first day of her arrival in Menegroth.

            Perhaps it was merely a place that he loved very dearly, so it was logical for him to go there for solitude.

            And perhaps he wanted her to find him.

            “Celeborn?” she called softly, for he had not looked up at her footsteps.

            “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, eyes still on the running water.  “I did not mean to run away.  I needed a moment to gather my thoughts.”

            “I didn’t know Thingol meant to cry it from the rooftops.  I meant to tell you, before…”

            “That wouldn’t really have changed anything,” he mused.  “So the children of Finarfin go forth to build their own kingdom?”

            “That is Finrod’s aim,” Galadriel agreed, nodding as she seated herself next to Celeborn.

            “And what is Galadriel’s aim?” he asked, turning to look at her at last, breath catching as he found their faces inches apart.

            “I aim to beguile a lad of Doriath to come with me,” she answered, lifting a hand to his cheek.

            “Anyone specific in mind?” he quipped solemnly, eyes wide.

            Smiling, she leaned closer, twining her fingers into his smooth hair, and pulling his face to hers.

            “Wait.”

            Galadriel felt his lips move just as they touched hers, and she pulled back, confused.

            Celeborn broke away, put his face in his hands, and took a shuddering breath.  “For a moment, you were all that mattered.  You were Galadriel, and that was enough.  But the world is not that simple.”

            “What do you mean?” she asked, half wishing he just kept quiet and let her kiss him, and half glad that he did not.

            “You’re asking me to leave Doriath, and to go west with you?”

            “I am,” she confirmed, firm tone hiding her awareness of how deeply vulnerable such a question made her.

            “Why?”

            She blinked.  Why did he always have to be daft on purpose, when it mattered?

            “Then I will say it first,” he continued, turning back to her, and gently taking her hands.  “I love you.  I think it might be enough love for eternity.  And I would not be parted from you until I can be sure.”

            “I want you to be with me,” she replied slowly, “because it would hurt to be away from you.”

            He smiled a sad smile.  “We agree on that much, at least.”  His eyes were pained, and painful to look into…

            “I see,” Galadriel spoke, voice cold and hard as smooth marble.  It would take strength she wasn’t sure she wanted to expend to uproot the silver tree from his forest.  “I pray we will meet again then.  If not in Middle-earth, then in the Halls of Mandos.”

            “I do not mean to give up so easily,” Celeborn countered, putting his hands on her shoulders just as she moved to turn away, and refusing to be hurt by her words.

            Galadriel bit her lip, and cursed him in her heart for being so difficult to stay angry with.

            “I would go into the depths of Angband to save you pain,” he said solemnly. 

            “It is very well to say such things, but no one is asking _that_ of you.  All I ask…”

            “Is that I leave Doriath,” he finished for her, “correct?  And in what capacity would I follow your people?  What skills has Celeborn that the Noldor need?”

            “You are a scholar,” she began.

            “For the people who invented a writing system,” he retorted.  “And I barely know the language your people speak.”

            “…and knowing Menegroth, you could act as an advisor…” Galadriel went on, undaunted by his interruption.

            “You cannot run another kingdom as you would Menegroth , without Melian,” he replied, shaking his head.

            “And you are a brave and capable warrior, when need calls,” she concluded.

            “Better to have no skills than to have ones you refuse to make use of,” Celeborn answered bitterly.  “I would be a foreigner among your people - not kin as you are to us.”

            Her brothers would love him before long, she knew.  But to her cousins, and the proud Noldor folk, Celeborn would be nothing but the consort of the princess.

            “Still, I would humble myself that far, if it came to it,” he replied.  “But tell me… convince me, Galadriel.  Why are these ambitions so dear to you?”

            _You cannot know what I have suffered for them.  You will not._

“We have left our father, and our home for this - to make a place our own, and to build up a force to oppose Morgoth.  To mend Beleriand to what it _should_ have been.”

            “Ambitious goals,” he commented softly, not at all as though he shared them.  “And hard ones, for someone who loves Beleriand as it is, as it might be.”           

            “What might it be?”

            “This,” Celeborn said, gesturing about him.   “The Hidden Kingdom.  Melian’s garden.”

            “This is but the smallest portion of Beleriand, Celeborn.  Can you truly hide in Menegroth while the Noldor fight your battles for you, and spill their blood for you?”  _Or perhaps, it is the least they can do…_

            “That isn’t what I meant,” he answered, shaking his head.  “I meant only that the Noldor are not the only force for Melkor to reckon with.  And if the forces that opposed him combined, they would be all the more formidable.”

            “What would be better then, towards that end, than to have a Prince of Doriath in the company of the children of Finarfin?”

            “To have a Princess of the line of Finwë in the court of Melian and Elwë.”

            “I fail to see the difference!  Is not one as good as the other?” Galadriel demanded in exasperation.

            “Yes and no,” Celeborn stated noncommittally.

            “That’s no kind of answer at all!” she stood, and began pacing on the moss.

            “You already have a place here, Galadriel.  You are Thingol’s niece, and Melian said…”

            “Have I _any_ chance, with the lot of you conspiring against me?” she retorted bitterly.  “Is it so wrong that I do not wish to leave my brothers?”

            “I have a brother as well.  You haven’t met him – Galathil is the fine warrior that his brother is not.  And he is a good and kind person.  You would like him.  Luthien is as dear to me as a baby sister.  We both have family and a people to leave behind.”

            “And yet you seek to convince me that your claims are higher than my own?”

            Celeborn shrugged.  “I have a home.”

            “I go to make one,” Galadriel countered, wrapping her arms tightly around herself.

            “You speak so much of building your own kingdom.  But Galadriel, will your brother’s city be so different from your grandfather’s?”

            “It will be different,” she answered softly.  Nothing would be the same again.

            “I do not mean to say that Finrod does not value your counsel…”

            Galadriel raised a hand.  “I know what you mean.  You’re saying that I will be the Noldor’s princess, and never their leader. I’m not sure that I agree.”

            Celeborn shrugged.

            And yet… the chance to distance herself from her cousins who would not meet her eyes and the brothers who would not speak of what haunted theirs, was tempting.  Until she healed…  _Do you think you ever will?_

“Consider what you felt at leaving your home.  You ask me to do no less.”

            “It is different.”  He needn’t know how.

            “This could be your home.”  He got to his feet, and stood before her.  Celeborn of Doriath stood under the trees of his home, with the moonlight on his hair, and the starlight in his eyes.  Doriath was in his blood, and he was part of its soul.

            “Your forest is fair, but it cannot replace my brothers, or my people,” she answered hotly, stepping away.

             “Galadriel,” he said, catching her elbow in a warm, gentle hand, “if you go, I will follow you.  But I beg you, do not force this choice upon me,” he pleaded earnestly.

            “And what choice would you leave me?”  She turned to face him, anger melting at his willingness to leave everything for her, but her exasperation remaining.  “You said yourself, it is no different - I must either leave the brothers whom I love, or leave…”

            Celeborn pulled her into his arms, and kissed her in the light of Varda’s stars.

            “That isn’t going to work,” Galadriel murmured breathlessly, then put her hand at his cheek, twined her fingers into his silver hair and kissed him back.

“Whatever we choose,” Celeborn said after a moment, as they stood in each other’s arms, “we choose it together.”

            “Perhaps…” Galadriel began quietly and carefully, laying her head on Celeborn’s shoulder, “I should try to discover what about this land has such a profound claim on your heart.”

            “I should like that a great deal,” he answered softly, tightening his arms around her as the night wind rustled gently through the emerald leaves of Doriath.

            “We are very unlike, you and I,” she told him, stroking through his smooth, straight silver hair.    

“Are we?”

            She nodded.  “Very.  It’s in our blood.”

            He snorted.   “Stop being foolish.  There isn’t some kind of profound difference between the Sindar and the Noldor.  It has to do with the choices of our ancestors, nothing more.”

            “I disagree,” Galadriel countered.  “Those decisions have formed the way we look upon the world, and upon others.”

            “We both seek knowledge of the world around us,” Celeborn pointed out.

            “And how do we apply it?  You look only to love, and to heal.  As I learn about the world around me, I think of how best to rule it,” she concluded, voice a little rueful.

            “Don’t say _rule_ ,” he began.

            “It is the word that best suits.”

            “Galadriel,” Celeborn continued, lifting a hand to tuck a strand of her lovely hair behind her ear, “your people….my people, _our_ people will always need leadership.  Say not that you seek to rule, but that you seek to lead.”

            “Fair words do not change the truth,” she replied quickly.

            “Speak the truth of me then,” he countered.  “I could not lead a nation or build a kingdom.  Nor would I even have a desire to.  Say that I am constrained by my love of my forest, constrained by my own compassion, hindered by my own thoughts and philosophies.”

            “And yet you walk on,” she pointed out.

            “Oh, indeed,” he agreed, rubbing at his forehead. “I walk on, stumbling and falling over my own feet.”

            “You criticize yourself too harshly.”

            “And you, my Lady, do the same.”

            Galadriel smiled suddenly, and Celeborn hesitantly returned it.  

            “We are not so unlike,” Celeborn told her.

            “In some ways,” she conceded.  “In others we are different as day and night.”

            “Or gold and silver?” he asked, grinning as he tugged at her hair.  His expression turned serious.  “Will you be my guide?” he asked her as he held her close.

            Galadriel laid her head against his shoulder again.  And for that moment, the world was simple enough…  “If you will be my conscience.”

            Celeborn kissed her very seriously then. 

            “I think you got the harder job,” she mused, when she could speak again.

            He laughed, and the night was brighter.  And they walked, hand in hand, back to Menegroth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

\-----------

 

[This scene was written, and rewritten, and rewritten… because they alternately wanted to fight, then to get all sappy.  So eventually they ended up doing both.  As usual, sorry it was a bit of a wait for an update.  There would be more… but I just don’t have the energy to write Finrod at the moment.  Soon, I dearly hope.  ^_^  Until then, enjoy the sap, and tell me what you think!]


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fic set during the Silmarillion - Galadriel and Celeborn meet in Doriath

“Sit,” Finrod bade.

Galadriel perched on the stone bench carved out of the walls of the corridor, and wondered what in the names of all the Valar made her obey him without a thought.

“You,” he turned to Celeborn, “I’ll… deal with you later.”

“Well then,” Celeborn replied, raising his eyebrows at Galadriel.

 “No,” she managed to interrupt, squeezing Celeborn’s hand, and wishing Finrod wouldn’t insist on exercising whatever older-brother-charisma he employed on her in front of Celeborn - although she had a feeling he was doing it on purpose.  “We both want to talk to you.”

“So you shall.  But right now, I want to talk to Galadriel.  All right?”

Galadriel assented with a slight sigh of exasperation.

“Good night then, my lord,” Celeborn answered, with a polite bow.

“Finrod,” he corrected absent-mindedly.

“Finrod,” Celeborn repeated, smiling.  He raised Galadriel’s hand that he had been holding to his lips, then released it.  “May your dreams be full of starlight and your waking blessed with sunshine,” he told her warmly, and departed.

“Is that some kind of traditional Sindarin ‘good night’ or did he make that up on the spot?” Finrod wanted to know, narrowing his eyes.

“No idea,” Galadriel replied, a little distractedly.

Finrod crossed his arms, and turned to her.

“Well?”

“What?”

“ _Well_?” he repeated more insistently.

“I’ve decided to accept Melian’s invitation to stay on in Doriath for a time as her companion and student,” Galadriel said, voice neutral, and proud.

Finrod gave her a flat look.  “I see.  You and Celeborn wanted to talk to me about your studies with Melian.”

“Well you certainly didn’t make this any easier by chasing him away!” Galadriel retorted.

“Who said I was trying to make anything easy?”

“Why are you so infuriating?”

“Years of practice… I can’t stop now.”

“Finrod,” Galadriel pleaded.

“I know, little one, I’m sorry,” he said ruefully, laughing a little as he sat down beside her, and put an arm around her shoulders.  “I’ll miss you terribly, you know,” he said softly.

She nodded, and let her head fall to his shoulder.

“For a while,” he said softly, stroking her unbound hair, “it didn’t matter that we were all grown up.  Parting with Amarië did break my heart, but no so much that I couldn’t see that I brought _all_ of us closer again.  And you, little one, have been like my shadow.  I have held us together, I know, as I did when we were little.”  He put his cheek against the top of her head, and held her tighter for a moment.   “But we are not little any more.  Not even you.  And perhaps it is time for us to be apart.”

And for a moment, the picture in her mind of a slight elf-lad named Finrod leading his band of little brothers – the littlest of which was a sister – off on countless adventures through the glades dappled in the tree-light that had suffused their childhood, blurred with her tears.

“You know that Angrod and Aegnor and Orodreth have all accepted realms of their own from the King.  He needs them in the north – we cannot stay together forever,” he said compassionately, wiping at her tears.

“I know,” she said, brushing his hands away and rubbing her own eyes dry, “nor do I truly think that we should, however I might want it.”

“But you also want Celeborn,” he ventured.

“I _love_ Celeborn,” Galadriel corrected firmly.

Finrod smiled.  “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Galadriel found no better way to express her exasperation than to laugh.  

“What became of your plans to convince _him_ to follow _you_?” Finrod wanted to know.

Galadriel shrugged.  “We… talked about it.  Heatedly.”

“Quarreled,” Finrod interpreted.

“And we decided that for now, there is more I wish to learn from Doriath than he from the Noldor,” she continued.

“Or perhaps, Galadriel,” Finrod began slowly, “there is something you do not wish him to learn.”

She looked at him sharply, and pushed him away.  Finrod looked back with guarded eyes.

“I do not take your meaning,” she lied.  “Celeborn was not eager to be parted from his home, I assure you.”

“Oh, I have no doubts Celeborn wished to stay in his forest.  But I also know the power of my sister’s stubbornness, not to mention how convincing she can be, when she puts her mind to doing her own will.  What held you back?”

“Do not ask me ambiguous questions, unless you want answers of the same sort,” she retorted.

“I think you might’ve convinced him to leave Menegroth, with a little effort.  I think you might’ve painted him a picture of the future – of the lord and lady of a forest realm, which would’ve bewitched him as well as it would you.   I think you might’ve bent his will to yours.”

“How romantic,” Galadriel muttered.

“Perhaps not, but true enough.  And yet you held back.  You agreed to his logic, and you compromised.  And I want to know why.” 

“Why do you ask me questions when you know the answers?” she snapped angrily, eyes pained.

Finrod bit his lip, and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, my Galadriel” he said, pulling her back to himself, and hugging her tightly.  “I just want to make sure you know them as well.”

“Do you think Father and Mother would have liked him?” she asked softly, after a moment.

“They’re going to love him,” Finrod assured her.

 

***

 

Celeborn shifted a little uncomfortably, and Finrod regarded him coolly. 

“So?” Finrod prompted.  The new day had dawned cheerfully, and, true to his word, Finrod had turned his attention to “dealing” with Celeborn.  Finrod leaned back in his chair, and Celeborn tried not to fidget.  It was _his_ study, for pity’s sake.  Finrod could at least have the good grace to look a _little_ ill at ease.  

“What do you want me to say?” Celeborn asked, at a loss.

“You’re stealing my baby sister, and you have nothing to say to me?”

Celeborn rolled his eyes.  “I wonder if you’d apply that turn of phrase in her presence.”

“Probably not,” Finrod conceded with a grin.  “It is, admittedly, less than accurate.”

Celeborn returned his smile.  

Finrod sighed, and ran a hand through his hair, setting his curls in greater disarray.  “I would like for us to be friends,” he said earnestly, “if for no other reason than Galadriel finding you worthy of her affection makes you extraordinary indeed.”

“One could say the same of you,” Celeborn ventured, unsure how to respond to this unexpected display of honesty, in the place of Finrod’s usual sarcastic banter.  

“Well, she _has_ to love me,” Finrod replied with a grin.  

“But she doesn’t _have_ to respect and admire you as much as she obviously does,” Celeborn countered.

“She is my truest and dearest friend,” Finrod said quietly.  “And I begin to understand why she never cared for…” he trailed off.

Not wanting to press Finrod for information, Celeborn stayed silent.  

“Well, I shall just have to exercise my superior maturity as the elder sibling, shan’t I?” Finrod told himself, much to Celeborn’s further confusion.  “I told her, yesterday, that our parents would love you,” he went on, turning to Celeborn.

“That means a great deal,” Celeborn said warmly.

“There is something about you that makes me think of my father.  A gentleness… and a kind of peace, that I have spent my life trying to find in myself.”  He smiled.  “Yes, they would be very fond of you indeed.”

Unsure of how to accept the compliment, Celeborn shifted a little uncomfortably again.  “Thank you,” he tried.

“You know,” Finrod remarked thoughtfully.   “I’m not sure what I would give to know what Galadriel is thinking right now, but it would certainly be something valuable.”

Celeborn laughed.  “We could always go ask her, you realize.”

“And be subjected to her winning wit, no doubt.”

“I suspect she learned from the master,” Celeborn answered dryly.

Finrod grinned.  “I could get to like you,” he conceded generously.

 

***

 

Finrod had been her protector, her harshest critic, and her truest and best friend for as long as she could remember. She loved Angrod and Aegnor and Orodreth just as dearly, but eldest brother and youngest sister had forged a special bond.  Some of her earliest memories of the world were from Finrod’s shoulders.  And since the first time Eärwen’s last baby learned to laugh, Finrod had made it his mission to draw that laugh forth as often as he could.

Leaving Finarfin had been possible only with Finrod’s curly head disappearing into the East…

Perhaps not.  Her ambitions might have driven her to Middle-Earth without her brothers.  But their presence and agreement had been her stay.

And now her stay was leaving.

Or rather, she was leaving him.

Finrod stood apart slightly from the group of architects he’d gathered from Menegroth, to make his final goodbyes to his host and hostess.  After lifting Luthien, and twirling with her a few times to the sound of her delighted laughter, he bowed gracefully to Thingol and Melian.  Thingol reached out to clasp Finrod’s hand warmly, and smiled.

Thingol seemed to have taken such a quick liking to Finrod, Galadriel mused.  Her brother’s charming, forthright manner was certainly likable, but the preference still struck her.  Thingol had been kind to her, but the warmth he showed Finrod seemed more towards the nature of the affection he lavished on Luthien.

Perhaps … Thingol dearly longed for a son.

Finrod laid a hand on Celeborn’s shoulder, and grinned.  “I think I can trust you to keep Galadriel from getting into _too_ much trouble.”

Celeborn smiled back.  “I’ll do my best.  And at the very least, I’ll make sure she takes me with her.”  After Finrod laughed, and turned to his sister, Celeborn withdrew to a tactful distance for Galadriel to bid her brother farewell. 

Finrod bent and kissed her white forehead. With a half-grin, Galadriel stood on her toes and returned the gesture.  She didn’t have far to reach, as they were much the same height.  Finrod laid a firm hand on her shoulder.

“If your happiness does not dwell where you seek it, you know where I will be,” he told her solemnly.

Galadriel shook her head and smiled.

Finrod pressed his hand a little more firmly on her shoulder.  “Always remember that your brothers will be faithful to you,” he said, eyes afire with intensity, speech careful, “…just as you are faithful to them.”

His eyes burned like… Galadriel winced a little, and took his meaning.

He saw that she understood him, and his face softened again as he embraced her, lifting her off her feet a little.    “Be well, little Galadriel,” he murmured softly, the fires in his eyes extinguished by the tears welling up in them.           

 

 

*******

 

This is where I turn to you, my dear readers and reviewers.

I have more.  It may take me a while sometimes, but I always have more.

Trouble is, I don’t know what to do with it.  It’s a little later, and a little more inclusive of the surrounding events of the Silmarillion, instead of concentrating so much on developing a relationship between Celeborn and Galadriel.  It does, however, still closely focus on them.

Sequel?  Or keep adding on to the long-windedness that already is _Silver and Gold_?

 

At any rate, I’m again very sorry for making everyone wait so long between updates.  School is killing me, and I am slowly dying of Organic Chemistry and integration in three dimensions.

 

As always, I write this as a tribute to how fully Professor Tolkien’s Middle-Earth has captured my imagination and my love.  


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